


Jamais Vu

by AgentNerd



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Being Rewritten, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Family, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, On Hiatus, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Slow Build, Tags May Change, Tony Stark is Good With Kids, some things are better and some things are worse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-04-12 06:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19126135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentNerd/pseuds/AgentNerd
Summary: Fourteen million six hundred and five possibilities.  Strange was bound to miss one.In this universe, they win; but things are different.(8/1/19- On Hiatus; undergoing rewrite.  Check last chapter for more details.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **8-1-19: This fic is currently being rewritten, and is therefore on hiatus. If you are interested in the rewrite, please skip to the last chapter for more details.**
> 
>  
> 
> I KNOW I should be working on my other fics, but after Endgame I got a little...stuck. I had to get this idea out of my system and into the world. Fair warning, there is no schedule for this fic. I have no idea when I'll update it. I have no idea if I'll finish it. But hopefully you enjoy.
> 
> Obviously, Endgame spoilers. This is a fix-it fic in that many of the characters who died did not die, and I'm changing other details that I want to change. However, that doesn't mean that things will be sunshine and rainbows from here on out. Expect some HEAVY angst (but I know that's why many of y'all read my work). I have a feeling this fic will diverge even more from canon as it goes on. I'm asking and answering a lot of questions about how the snap worked and how things could have been.
> 
> The tags will be updated as they become applicable in later chapters, so keep an eye on them.
> 
> As always, thanks for your support, and if you liked it, let me know what you think.

It was no surprise everyone ended up in medical after saving the world, but that didn’t mean Peter liked it.

He had some superficial cuts and bruises, _maybe_ a bruised rib or two, but honestly, he’d be fine by tomorrow morning, the day after, tops.  It certainly wasn’t the worst he’d ever been injured, but his pride took a sizeable hit when the doctors insisted on monitoring him for a few hours after _someone_ (his money was on Strange) mentioned to them that he’d had a particularly difficult reaction to the snap.  Peter was convinced that the sharp, blinding headache and churning nausea he’d felt moments before vanishing was simply an extreme result of his spidey-sense warning of his imminent demise, but it was pointless to try to explain that to the doctors.  Because he _had_ tried. 

After lying in a hospital bed and distracting himself by admiring all of the cool Wakandan medical tech for what felt like eternity, he’d been tentatively cleared with strict instructions to report back if he experienced “ _any side effects whatsoever I swear to god Mr. Parker”_ (he’s not sure if that particular doctor had worked with stubborn superheroes before, but he could imagine this single day contained a lifetime of experience).  Peter made a beeline straight for Mr. Stark’s room.  If he had gained anything good from the doctors’ extended fussing, it was that he’d killed enough time for Mr. Stark to get out of surgery and into a recovery room.

“Hey, Spidey,” Rhodey greeted when Peter entered.  He was the only other guest in the room, perched in a single chair next to Tony’s bedside.  He looked remarkably unscathed except for a single cut butterfly-bandaged across his cheekbone.  He stood, leg braces whirring softly.  “I’ll give you some time with him.  I’m starting to think he’s still asleep just to spite me.”

“Thanks, Colonel Rhodes.”

He smiled, “Call me Rhodey.  All my friends do.”

Peter grinned in response and stuck out his hand, “Thanks, Rhodey.  My friends call me Peter.”

Rhodey crossed the room in a couple of steps and shook Peter’s hand, “You holding up okay, Peter?”

“Yeah,” he responded.  “Healing ability.  I’ll be good by tomorrow morning.”

“God, what I wouldn’t give for that.  Well, enjoy his silence then.  It’s a rare gift,” Rhodey joked, and with one last pat on Peter’s shoulder, the War Machine was gone.

Peter sunk down into the now vacant chair.  If it weren’t for the dark purple bruises and scattered cuts across his face, Mr. Stark would have looked almost peaceful in sleep.  Even his arm didn’t look so bad propped up on top of the sheets, wrapped from shoulder to fingertips in clean, white bandages.  The gauntlet had done some serious damage to his arm—Peter had heard some nurses in the hall whispering that there had been talk at one point of possibly removing it—but luckily, they were able to fix him up without doing anything too drastic.  God bless Wakanda.  It was too early to say how much mobility he’d lost in it, but if anyone could pull through and make a full recovery, it was Tony Stark.

Peter had only been sitting there for a couple of minutes when the man himself opened his eyes.

“Rhodey was right,” Peter said without thinking, and Mr. Stark groaned as he dragged himself into awareness.

“Don’t ever tell him that, it’ll go straight to his head.”

“I think he’d say the same about you.”

“Yeah, well.  We were meant for each other,” Tony turned his head to look at Peter.  “Hey, kid.”

“Hey, Mr. Stark,”  Peter had the sudden urge to reach out and—what?  Hug him?  Hold his hand?  Some instinctive part of him craved contact, but he restrained himself.

“How’re you doing?”

“Mr. Stark, _you’re_ the one who just got out of surgery.”

“Yeah, and _I’m_ the one who asked the question.”

“I’m fine,” Peter responded, rolling his eyes.  “Alive.  Thanks to you.  You saved the world.”

“No biggie.  Honestly, it’s becoming old hat at this point.”

“Well, hopefully you won’t have to do it again.”

Tony hummed in agreement, then regarded Peter with eyes that looked only slightly still fatigued.  “It’s good to have you back, kid.”

“It’s good to be back,” Peter took a deep breath.  “I just hope, after this,” he waved his arms around in a vague gesture, “everything can go back to normal, y’know?”

Tony nodded, then leaned his head back in his pillow.  “Don’t worry.  You’ll be back to gym class and burnt tuna casserole in no time.”

That suddenly sparked a worry in Peter, one he hadn’t been able to even think about since he’d launched himself from the school bus in what felt like forever ago now, “May!  How has she—is she—do you know—?”

A dark look came over Tony’s face, and Peter realized he shouldn’t have asked.  Not now, not to the man who had just nearly died to save the world.  He couldn’t take it back, though, and Tony closed his eyes for a moment, took a breath, then explained.  “After you…were gone, she needed some space.  Told me in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want to hear from me again unless I had found a way to fix things.”

“But it wasn’t your—”

“I don’t blame her for feeling that way.  You shouldn’t either.  I mean, she lost her only kid, and it was… _rough_ …for me too, but I couldn’t imagine…” he looked pained.  “Anyway, I respected her wishes.  It was the least I could do.  So sorry, kid, I haven’t heard from her in a long time.”

“I guess that’s okay, then,” Peter said.  He didn’t know what else to say.  “I should—”

Suddenly, the door opened behind him.

“Daddy!” yelled a voice.  Peter turned to see Pepper enter the room, accompanied by a small form that whizzed past Peter and leaped up onto the bed.  Tony let out an audible “oof” as the motion jostled his arm, but his non-injured one still came up to wrap around the little girl, fingers carding through her hair as he looked at her with incredible tenderness in his eyes.

“Hey, pumpkin.  Be gentle with the leaps and bounds, alright?  It’s been a rough day.”

“Uh…” Peter reactively vocalized.  At the realization that someone else was in the room, the little girl’s head snapped up, eyes going wide as they locked on Peter, and she fell to the ground on the other side of the bed, hiding behind it with one hand still clutching the bedsheets beside Tony’s waist.

Peter didn’t need to ask who she was.  Not really.  His mind had made the connection from the instant she entered the room.  Even if she had said nothing, he could see Tony’s eyes, duplicated and staring widely at him from behind the bed railing.  The same brunette hair, though lacking the grey that suddenly, to Peter, was so much more prominent on Mr. Stark’s head than it had been the last time he’d seen him.  He could see the curve of Pepper’s nose, and as the little girl frowned at him, he could see that she had the same little furrow in her brow he’d witnessed being directed at him and Mr. Stark many times when they stayed up working in the lab too late.  She was a perfect mix of both of them.

“Peter,” a sudden vulnerability overtook Tony for a moment, and it looked foreign on his face.  But he pushed on.  “I’d like you to meet Morgan.  My daughter.”

Confirmation.  Instantly and silently, something inside of Peter broke.

In the last few moments of calm they had right before erupting through a portal and into the battle, Dr. Strange had tried to explain the mechanics of the snap with a lot of big words and bigger concepts that were a bit too much for Peter to understand.  Strange had rolled his eyes when Peter asked for a “TL;DR”, but he had obliged and said that basically, while it hadn’t felt that long for them, five years had passed back on earth. 

That should have been significant, but Peter hadn’t thought much about it at the time, too anxious to see everyone again and (literally) get back into the swing of things.  When he finally returned to earth, the others had accepted him back into the fray as if no time had passed at all.  He found himself preoccupied with helping save the world, and the details of everything else had quickly disappeared to a place far back in his mind.

They all came rushing back now as five years stared him in the face.

Five years was a whole person.  A person who could walk, and talk, and form complex thoughts.    Did she go to school?  Peter couldn’t remember what age that started.  She was probably smart, anyway, there was no way she _hadn’t_ inherited her parents’ brains.  She was wearing a t-shirt with a Disney logo and a princess on it that Peter didn’t recognize, and he realized that five years meant a whole host of movies he hadn’t seen.  References he didn’t know.  Memories he hadn’t made. 

In an instant, he had seen five years, and in an instant they were stolen from him.  The feeling was indescribable.

“Morgan, this is Peter.  My…”

Colleague?  Mentee?  Protégé?  Friend?  Peter could think of a hundred different words, but he wasn’t sure exactly how to describe their relationship.  Mr. Stark was his hero.  Had been ever since he was a little kid.  He admired him more than he admired just about anyone else, which was a big deal when you’d met a whole comic shop’s worth of superheroes in real life.  But more than that, Mr. Stark was a teacher, even though he liked to pretend to break out in hives every time Peter pulled out his homework at the compound.  He looked out for Peter.  Guided him.  Made sure he was safe—or at least as safe as a teenager with superhuman abilities could be.

Of the hundred different words, there was one that hovered prominently in his mind in front of the rest.  He could feel its resonance with every memory, but Peter didn’t dare acknowledge it.  Not to himself, and certainly not to anyone else.

An arrested expression came over Tony’s face.  He seemed to struggle over finding the right thing to say, just as Peter struggled over his own thoughts.

“My…intern.”

Something heavy dropped from Peter’s head, sunk down his throat and settled low in chest.  The word wasn’t necessarily inaccurate, but its utterance felt like something being ripped away from him, and his skin burned in its wake.  Detached.  Impersonal.  Despite the fact that Peter could still vividly remember Mr. Stark hugging him in the middle of the battle harder than anyone had ever hugged him in his life, clinging to him as if he was liable to break into thousands of pieces and disappear a second time. 

It hurt.  But perhaps even worse, the thought suddenly occurred to Peter that with this introduction, with Morgan’s confused stare…she had no idea who he was.  She didn’t know his name, and she had certainly never seen any pictures of him.

In five years, Mr. Stark had never mentioned him. 

Peter quickly shoved a new kind of pain deep into the recesses of his mind, knowing instinctively he would not be able to deal with it if it lingered.  “Hi Morgan,” he said, forcing a smile onto his face as he gave a little wave.  “It’s nice to meet you.”

She ducked further behind the bed in response, and Tony sighed good-naturedly.  He ruffled a hand through her hair, and Peter noticed that every time he looked at her, it was with a complete and utter adoration that he had never seen on the man before.  “Sorry about that.”

“She’s just a little shy around new people.  We’re working on it,” Pepper pitched in, squeezing Peter’s shoulder briefly in greeting as she came around the bed to take Tony’s hand.  Morgan instantly attached herself to her mother’s side.  “We don’t get visitors often; we’ve been trying to live a quiet life ever since…”

She didn’t need to finish her sentence.  The three of them looked picturesque, side by side.  The very model of loving domesticity.  The weight in Peter’s chest wrapped around his ribcage and squeezed.

“I should go,” he said suddenly, voice cracking.

“Peter—” But Peter cut Tony off before he could finish his sentence.

“I need to talk to May,” he said, more firmly this time.  Tony’s face softened instantly into an expression of understanding, and he nodded, grip tightening on Pepper’s hand.

“Yeah, of course.  Go.  Be with your family.”

As Peter fled the room, the last thing he saw was the three of them hugging out of the corner of his eye.  The hospital had become stifling.  He needed to leave, to get out, but he was in a country he didn’t know in the middle of a continent he’d never been to before.  After twisting and turning down various hallways, he eventually managed to find a sunny courtyard.  It would have to do.

Peter pushed his way through the glass doors and took a big gulp of fresh air.  He practically collapsed onto the nearest bench and pulled out his phone.  In a miraculous display of humanity and collaboration, all phone networks had decided to provide worldwide free service for the next week in order to help people reconnect with their loved ones; so Peter had no trouble turning on his phone despite the fact that for all intents and purposes, it had been dormant for five years.

He opened up his contacts and pressed May’s name.  The phone rang. 

 

 

And rang.

 

 

 

And rang.

 

 

 

And rang.

 

 

 

“ _We're sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service._ ”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter goes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your lovely comments and kudos. They really inspire me, you have no idea.

“You don’t understand, I need to leave, I _need_ to get back to New York!”

Peter was frantic.  As soon as his call had ended, he had rushed to the intake desk at the front of the ward, begging to be released.  He had stopped to talk to no one.  He had no possessions other than his phone, and he probably looked pathetic, bargaining with the head nurse while still clad in a blue set of hospital scrubs, but he didn’t care.  In the span of one failed phone call, every single priority in his life had shifted to the need to get home as soon as possible.

“According to your records, what you _need_ is to rest, young man,” the nurse told him.  Peter was quickly getting more desperate by the minute.  “For at least twenty-four hours.  Then the doctor will decide if you can be discharged.  And I am sorry, but even if I did let you go, there are no pilots working today that could help you,” she explained, much more kindly.  “All people with non-essential jobs have been given the day off to be with their families.”

“I _know_ , but…” Peter’s voice came out in an embarrassing whine, and he could feel a burning sensation behind his eyes.  There had to be _something_.  Couldn’t she see he needed to be with his family too?

Suddenly, Peter heard footsteps, and he picked up on movement out of the corner of his eye.  He turned around, and upon seeing who exactly the two figures approaching were, he quickly abandoned the nurse’s desk.

“Mr. Hawkeye!   Ms. Widow!” he rushed over to the pair of them as they headed for the doors.  They stopped and stared at him, and Peter tried to tamp down his building anxiety the best way he knew how: by running his mouth.  “Hi!  I’m Peter.  Um.  Spider-Man?  And I know I don’t really know you.  Or, barely know you,” he looked to Natasha.  “But, uh, could I ask where you’re going?”

“Home,” Clint answered, regarding Peter with an inscrutable expression.  Peter knew they were both pilots: he remembered reading about it on the old Avengers trading cards he used to own.

“Great!  Would you mind if I tagged along?  If you could just pass over New York, you wouldn’t even need to stop, I could just jump out, trust me, I’ve done it before…”

Natasha frowned and stared over Peter’s head, presumably at the cross-looking nurse he’d left behind.  “I don’t know, kid.  We don’t want to ruffle any feathers.”

“Please,” Peter pleaded, voice taking on an edge of hysteria.  His fingers curled into his palms in an aborted instinct to reach out and physically beg—he didn’t know much about the two former superspies, but he didn’t want to risk being actually killed before he could get an answer.  “I need to get home.  I can’t reach my aunt, her phone’s been disconnected or something, and I need to make sure she’s okay.  Please, she’s the only family I have left…”

“Okay,” Clint said firmly.  Peter’s explanation seemed to have moved him.  He and Natasha glanced at each other for a moment, a silent conversation seeming to pass between them until finally, Natasha nodded.

“Go warm up the jet.  I’ll take care of the paperwork.”

“Thank you,” Peter said, pulling in a shaky breath.  Clint gestured for him to follow while Natasha turned around to deal with the nurse, and together, Peter and Clint made their way out of the hospital.

The hospital was in the middle of the city, but they didn’t have to walk very far to reach the small quinjet that would take them home.  Technology was so well-integrated into the fabric of the city that the airstrip it sat on blended in almost completely to the plaza alongside it, the only indication of its limits being the blue holographic barriers that appeared to warn them when they got close.  There were a couple of other small Wakandan aircraft parked beside the quinjet, and Peter guessed that they had helped transport the many injured to the hospital.  It had been the biggest conflict that the isolationist country had seen in decades. 

Clint opened up the jet’s doors and ushered Peter in, then hopped up himself with practiced ease.  While Peter settled himself into a seat, Clint busied himself with pre-flight checks, and by the time he finished, Natasha had reappeared.  “All set?” Clint confirmed, and Natasha nodded.

“Thank you,” Peter repeated again as she climbed into the passenger seat.  In answer, she tossed a plain, black backpack into his lap.  Inside was his spider-suit, seemingly having been cleaned and repaired since the battle.

“Princess Shuri happened to pass by as I was sorting out your discharge paperwork.  It seems she’s been keeping herself busy.”

Peter nodded, not being able to bring himself to say anything in response.  Clint navigated the jet smoothly out of its parking space and into the sky, and soon Wakanda was nothing but a blur behind them.  They sat in silence as they ascended—a silence that seemed much more comfortable between Natasha and Clint than it did with Peter, though he knew that with the worry clouding his mind, there were no circumstances in which he’d be comfortable at that moment.  It was only when they reached cruising altitude that Clint switched most functions to autopilot and turned to face Peter.

“Could I ask you a question?  I guess it’s, uh, personal.”

“Mr. Hawkeye, frankly, you could ask me for my social security number right now and I would gladly hand it over,” Peter responded semi-seriously.

“As if I couldn’t figure that out easily on my own,” Clint tried to joke, but the atmosphere was too heavy, and it seemed to fall flat even to his own ears.  He frowned, then continued.

“When you died…or, disappeared.  Or,” he pressed his lips together for a moment, seeming unsure of how to continue.  “You know.  What was it like?”

“Oh,” Peter responded.  He had to pause for a moment.  Shifted in his seat.  Jiggled his leg up and down a bit.  To be honest, he hadn’t really tried to think about what that experience had been like since coming back from it.  Hadn’t wanted to.  It wasn’t death, but it wasn’t really existence, either, and something about that was…unsettling, when he lingered on it too long.  But if that’s the only thing Clint asked of him in exchange for this ride, Peter owed him an explanation.  He worded it best he could.  “Have you ever done that thing where you fall asleep and then wake up expecting it to be the next morning, but when you look at the clock only a couple of hours have passed, and it’s super disorienting?”

He waited, and Clint realized he was supposed to answer.  “Yeah,” he nodded.

“I think that’s the closest way I can describe it.  Like, doing that over and over again.  Nothing felt entirely real there,” even now, thinking about it, Peter was overcome with a sudden wash of anxiety as if he was about to lose himself.  “It wasn’t a room, or an environment, or anything, it was just…flat.  And it felt like I slept a lot, except instead of laying down it was more like floating?  When I was ‘awake’, I could feel other people around me, but it was like I could only see them out of the corner of my eye.  Doctor Strange.  Those Guardian guys.  They were the closest—we could talk to each other if we focused hard enough.  I think there were more, too, but they were a lot further away.  I figured it was because we were all in the same place when we disappeared.”

Clint stared ahead at the sky, and Peter thought that their conversation was over.  Then, a minute later he quietly asked, “So it didn’t hurt?”

“No,” Peter said.  “It didn’t hurt.”

The vanishing part had for him, but he knew that wasn’t what Clint was asking.  He knew there was a reason they were pushing the jet’s speed limits as they raced back to the United States, and it wasn’t for Peter’s sake.

At his admission, a tension seemed to leave Clint’s body.  His shoulders lowered, and he took a deep breath.  Peter gathered up the courage to ask, “Could you tell me what happened while I was gone?”   

Clint and Natasha had one of their silent staring conversations once again, but after a moment, they launched into a joint explanation of the events leading up to the defeat of Thanos.  Getting the team back together.  Time travel.  Meeting Red Skull.  Making a sacrifice.

“It was a picture of my family,” Clint admitted quietly.  “I’d kept it in my pocket for five years, the last reminder I had of them.  Throwing it away, knowing it was still possible we could fail and I’d have nothing left…”

What they failed to mention was anything that happened outside the scope of the Avengers.  By the end of it, Peter was still burning with questions about how, exactly, the rest of the world had functioned after losing half of its population.  Both from a logistical standpoint and, if he was honest with himself, an emotional one.  Deep inside, the blow from Tony’s indirect rejection still stung, and a voice of the back of his mind screamed: _did anyone care?_

But they didn’t offer that information, and Peter couldn’t ask.

Some halfhearted small talk was made after that, but much of the rest of the trip was spent in silence.  Peter got the impression that usually, Clint was a funny and sociable guy, and Natasha seemed much more at ease and personable in his presence, but the circumstances as they were set a mood of tense impatience and anxiety.  Everyone just wanted to get home.

“We’ll be hitting New York in about ten minutes,” Clint noted some hours later, “If you look in that bin behind your seat, I think Bruce has some spare clothes left over in there.  If you don’t want to walk around the city in scrubs, that is.”

Peter looked in the spot indicated and found a grey button-up shirt, khaki pants, and a belt. He quickly and gratefully changed.  He was similar enough in height to Dr. Banner, though Peter’s shoulders weren’t quite as wide, and the clothes hung a bit loosely off his frame.  Despite his recent mood, Peter had to quell the urge to geek out over the fact that he was borrowing the clothes of one of his idols.  When he had settled back down in his seat, Natasha turned around and handed him a twenty-dollar bill.

“For cab fare,” she explained.  “We won’t actually make you jump out of the quinjet—the Avengers still have some pull at Stark’s old tower, so we’ve gotten clearance to land there.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, pocketing the money.  He was starting to feel like a broken record, but May had always taught him to be polite.

May.  He was so close.

Their landing was smooth and uneventful, and before Peter knew it, he was stepping off the quinjet and onto the helipad of what had previously been known as Avengers Tower.  As far as he knew, people still called it that, despite the fact that it had been renamed after some other rich guy when it had been split up into use by different businesses.

“See ya, kid,” Clint said.

“Take care of yourself,” Natasha added, sounding like she genuinely meant it.

Peter gave an awkward salute that he immediately regretted in the place of thanking them once more, and quinjet took off.  He was alone.

New York didn’t look like it had changed in five years.  Not from several dozen stories up, at least.  All the major landmarks were still there: the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, Brooklyn Bridge off in the distance.  Nothing radically different seemed to have been added, either.  He could still hear the cacophony of traffic from the streets below and spot the small yellow specks of taxi cabs weaving through the streets.  The constancy of it all was reassuring.

Maybe everything would soon be back to normal.

He made his way down to the front lobby of the building, only running into a single security guard and secretary, both of whom seemed unconcerned about his presence.  Out on the street, he hailed a cab and gave the driver the address to his apartment.

Peter rested his head against the cool glass of the cab’s window, suddenly feeling exhausted.  Worry had kept him from falling asleep on the quinjet, and he knew despite his lethargy it would still keep him awake now.  That nurse had probably been right about him needing rest.  _Soon_ , he thought.  Just after he saw that May was okay.  Then he could sleep.

The cab reached his apartment, and Peter paid him with the money Natasha had given him.  It sped off to find its next customer, and Peter climbed the steps to his apartment.  The elevator was still out of order.  Mrs. Liu on the first floor still had the same sunflower-patterned welcome mat in front of her door.  Mr. Jankowski on the second floor still kept Animal Planet on full volume during the day.  As Peter climbed the stairs, his stomach twisted with nerves, but he couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope.  This was all familiar.  Comfortable.  Safe.

He finally reached his apartment door.  They had never been one for decorating the outside of it—at least, not after their Christmas wreath had been stolen when Peter was nine.  It still had the huge chip in the center where Ben had nicked it when moving in a new sofa years ago. 

Peter took a deep breath.  He could do this.  He raised a fist to the door and knocked.

A pause.  Then footsteps.  The door opened about six inches, and time seemed to freeze for a moment a little boy Peter had never seen before in his life stared at him from behind it.

Then the door slammed shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. Yell at me in the comments.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter finds more questions than answers.

Peter heard a raised voice, slightly muffled, through the door.

“ _Jamari, what have I told you about answering the door on your own?”_

Then it opened once more, but this time a woman in her early thirties appeared.  She regarded him for a moment, then smiled.

“I’m so sorry about that; can I help you?”

Peter leaned to the side, double checking the apartment number—he really didn’t need to though; it was correct.  Peter wasn’t stupid, as much as he might have wished to be in that moment.  He knew what was going on.  But he had to confirm anyway.

“Do you live here, ma’am?”

“Yes, I do.”

His stomach felt like it was filled with lead.

“Um, do you know anything about May Parker?  She—I guess, used to—live here, at least five years ago?  If you know why she moved out, or where she might have gone…”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about the previous tenant,” an understanding look came over her.  “You were one of the Vanished?”

 _The Vanished._ Always spoken with a capital V.  Peter had been hearing the word with increasing frequency since the hospital in Wakanda.  He nodded.

“Well, I can tell you I moved in here two years ago, but I don’t know anything about a May Parker,” she appeared to be truly sympathetic.  “Look, have you seen on the news—?  Or maybe you haven’t.  Hold on a second.”  She disappeared inside, reemerging seconds later with an address scrawled on a piece of paper.  “The government has set up centers all over the city for people who are looking for their loved ones or don’t have anywhere else to go.  This is the closest one.  They might be able to help you.” She handed the slip of paper to him.  Peter stared at it, feeling like he was in a daze.

“I’ll try it.  Thanks.”

Her smile looked a lot sadder than it had when she first opened the door.  “Good luck.  And…welcome back.”

Peter nodded in response, then turned away as the woman closed the door.

He didn’t have enough money for another cab, so he pulled out the GPS on his phone and started to walk.  The streets still looked the same.  Everything was just as familiar as it had appeared from the rooftop of Avengers Tower.  But now, inexplicably, it felt wrong.

His mind retreated in on itself, only registering the automated voice giving out directions on his phone.  When it finally announced that he had arrived at his destination, Peter had no memory of the last half of his walk.  He looked up.  The address turned out to be the local YMCA.

He entered the lobby to find multiple tables set up, each fronted with long lines of people.  He joined one and stared at his feet, shuffling forward inch by inch.  He refused to think about what was happening.  It would only lead to more what-ifs, and he already felt like he was on the edge of something just waiting to turn into a mental breakdown. After what felt like an eternity, he finally found himself face-to-face with the haggard-looking woman sitting behind the table.  She spoke monotonously as if she was reciting from a script. 

“You were Vanished?”

Distantly, Peter wondered if this was the only thing about him that mattered anymore.

“Yes.”

“Displaced or looking for family?”

Peter took a deep breath.  “Both, I guess.”

She handed him a Starkpad with a  form pulled up on it.  “Fill out this paperwork as completely as you can.  Do you have a form of ID?  State or school ID, driver’s license, passport, birth certificate, social security card?”

“No,” Peter realized.  May had kept his most important documents in a lockbox in her closet, and he’d left his wallet in his backpack when he climbed out of the school bus to fight alongside the Avengers five years ago.  Ned would have been the last one to see it, and if he hadn’t vanished alongside Peter, he almost certainly would have returned Peter’s possessions to May.  So it was MIA no matter what.  He remembered at the last moment, though: “I know my social security number.”

“Good, that’ll help.  There’s a space for you to write that,” she indicated.  “You understand, we can’t give out personal information of potential family members if we can’t verify your identity.”

Peter nodded.

“As you can see, a lot of people need our help right now, so we have a bit of a backlog.  We’ll process your paperwork as soon as we can.  If you have a phone, you can sign up to get a text or email alert when someone is ready to address your case; otherwise, paper lists are posted each day in the lobby with names and appointment times,” she pointed to a community bulletin board near the front doors.  

“Do you know how long it’ll take?” Peter asked tentatively.

“It’s hard to say,” she sighed.  “A few days at minimum.  Like I said, we have a lot of people we’re helping, and it takes a while to gather all of that information.”

Peter filled in the form as best he could.  It asked for information about himself, obviously, and also information about who he was looking for.  Name, birthdate, last known address and contact information, employer…if Peter hadn’t been fairly certain the government knew all about their personal information anyway (he’d been big into those FBI-agent-in-my-webcam memes, once upon a time), he might have been worried about handing all of this over.  But that also didn’t matter.  If it helped him find May, it was worth it.

Once he had double-checked to make sure he’d filled in everything correctly, he handed the Starkpad back over and the woman.  “Okay, then from here you’ll go down the hall to the guest services desk and speak with the staff there.  They’ll set you up with a bed.  Good luck.  _Next._ ”

Peter hurried out of the way and headed in the direction that the woman had indicated.  There he was met with another line of people, though not quite as long as the ones in the lobby.  When he reached the front, a man with a nametag that read “Shaun” gave him a smile that looked forced in an exhausted sort of way. “Name?”

“Peter Parker.”

Shaun glanced at his computer for a moment.  “Ah, yes, here you are.  One bed.  So, the guest rooms are being reserved for young children and families at the moment, so you’ll be in the main gymnasium.  They have sleeping spaces clearly marked out there; your number is,” he took a quick glance back down to the screen, “sixty-three.  I’m afraid there aren’t any more lockers available, but if you have any valuables you need to store, you can come here to check them and we’ll give you a receipt.” 

He paused to check if Peter was following.  Peter nodded in acknowledgment.  Shaun took a preparatory breath and continued.

“Meals are offered in the small gym at set times.  Breakfast is served from seven to nine, lunch is noon to two, and dinner is five to seven.  They’re no charge for those staying here, but if you want food outside of those times, some snacks are available for purchase at the snack bar.  Here’s a map of the facility, note that the nearest bathrooms and showers to the gym are here and here,” he circled the locations on the paper map with a pen pulled out of the coffee mug on the desk.  He then turned to an associate behind him and said, “Hey Ryan, need a male kit for the gym—spot sixty-three.”

Peter watched as Ryan retreated back into a storage room and returned a moment later with a bundle of supplies in hand.  He set it on a table, then took a sharpie and started writing sixty-three on a variety of different blank labels.  One got zip-tied onto the zipper of a sleeping bag; two more were safety-pinned onto a thin pillow and gym towel; the third was stuck onto a Ziploc bag of toiletries.

“It’s not a great system, but it’s the best we can do,” Shaun sounded almost apologetic.  “Supplies are limited, so try not to lose anything—we can’t guarantee it’ll be replaced.”

Peter nodded as Ryan finished with the labeling and put all of the items into a thick, black trash bag.  He then came forward and handed the bag to Peter.

“So the main gym is to your left, just follow the signs.  But just one more thing,” Shaun said, “There’s no smoking—including e-cigarettes—drinking, fighting, or threatening or discriminatory speech allowed here.  If you are found in violation of those rules or are deemed to otherwise be a threat to the community by staff, you will be forced to vacate the premises.  I have a form here detailing all the rules and expectations, I just need you to read through it and sign at the bottom that you understand.” He pulled out another Starkpad and handed it over.  Peter barely gave it a glance before scribbling out something with his fingertip that might have resembled his name.

“­If you have any questions, feel free to come back here or ask anyone wearing a yellow nametag,” Shaun pointed to his as an example.  “I hope you’re back where you belong soon.”

“Me too,” Peter answered numbly, tightening his hold on his new belongings as he turned and walked away.   So that was it.  His new life, contained in a single backpack and trash bag.  It occurred to him then that he shouldn’t have left the scrubs behind on the quinjet—he didn’t have any other spare clothes.  Just the ill-fitting ensemble borrowed from Dr. Banner and his spider-suit.  He turned down the hall and found the entrance to the main gym.  A big green curtain in the middle of the room separated the two full-size basketball courts into segregated sleeping spaces—one for men, and one for women.  They’d laid out blue tumbling mats across the wooden floor, the same kind Midtown used for P.E., and yellow tape marked out a grid of sleeping-spaces, each labeled with a number.  Peter found his spot on the edge of the grid near one of the basketball hoops, and he let his belongings fall to the mat with a dull _thump_.

It was just past six o’clock.  He could have gotten dinner—should have, probably, since the last thing he’d eaten was a granola bar Natasha had thrown to him on the quinjet—but he found that he wasn’t hungry.  Instead, he fished his belongings out of the trash bag.  He laid out his pillow, unrolled his sleeping bag, and stuffed the rest of his belongings into the foot of it.  Hopefully, they wouldn’t be at risk of being stolen that way.  He crawled in, laid down on the floor of the YMCA gymnasium, and closed his eyes.

Bright fluorescent lights burned beyond his eyelids.  The vinyl mat beneath him smelled sharply like bleach covering up old sweat, and he could hear the noises of a hundred people echoing around him.  Lowered voices talking.  Phones chiming.  Sleeping bags zippering.  From the other side of the curtain, he could hear a woman crying.

Peter did not cry.  He laid still and breathed deeply.  A minute passed.  Then two.   Then, it all started to fade away.

For a moment, he was surrounded by flat nothingness.  It was quiet, and numbing, and disorienting.  He was not dead, but he did not exist either.

For a moment, he was floating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a YMCA in Queens, but there is very little detailed information about it online. If you've been there, I apologize--this version is a fictional one based on YMCA floorplans I could find online and the vague memories I have of visiting my own local YMCA during childhood.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming back is a constant series of adjustments.

Peter and May had never had much money; not even when Ben was still alive.  Their apartment was modest, and they were always very careful to never live above their means.  Peter knew that compared to kids like Flash who had rich parents, the Parkers didn’t have much.  However, even when he wore his single pair of sneakers until the soles fell off, or they went shopping for a new dining table at Goodwill, or they ate casserole made from whatever condensed soup was on sale at the grocery store that week, Peter had never felt lacking for anything.

He had never truly realized how lucky he had been, though.  When he went to take a shower the next morning, it only took one look at the grimy tile floor for Peter to realize that he didn’t have any sort of shower shoes.  He ended up bumming a couple of plastic shopping bags from the guest services desk to wrap around his feet. 

When he finished, he changed back into Bruce’s clothes, the same clothes he had slept in, and brushed his teeth with a tiny travel tube of toothpaste.  He ran his fingers through his damp, unruly hair, wishing for a comb, but the toiletry kit he’d been given didn’t have one.  He put his belongings into his backpack—he’d refused to part with it even in the bathroom, terrified at the prospect of the spider-suit being discovered or stolen—and resolved to explore the rest of the facility. 

The first thing he did was go to the lobby to check the appointment board.  He’d signed up to get a text when they were ready to talk to him, and a lack of one that morning meant he wasn’t really surprised when he didn’t see his name posted.  His spirits still sunk lower than they had been. Peter then found the small gym where breakfast was being served and joined the line for a tray.  The food looked about on-par with what was offered by Midtown’s cafeteria.  It had all been pre-cooked somewhere else and was now scooped out of metal tubs that had been set up on folding tables.  They didn’t advertise it anywhere, but Peter recognized the aprons the volunteers wore as belonging to a local soup kitchen—the decathlon team had volunteered there Peter’s freshman year during service week.  Their presence made sense, and Peter didn’t feel any sort of shame towards that fact; after all, living in a single-income household, he’d been on the free and reduced lunch program at school for years.  He was just grateful that someone was providing him with free food and the means to eat it.

Tables and chairs had been set out on the gym floor, and one wall of bleachers were pulled out for additional seating.  Peter chose an isolated spot at the top of these bleachers to eat his breakfast.  It was still early, so there weren’t too many people up and about.  Those that were mostly kept to themselves, and talking was kept to a minimum.  Peter hadn’t seen anyone outright unfriendly at the center so far, but there was the general feeling in the air that most people wanted to pretend like all of this wasn’t happening, and that meant going with the motions until they could leave and not making friends along the way.  Peter understood.

He hadn’t seen anyone he’d known so far.  Well, there was one boy in the main gym that _might_ have been in his math class in the eighth grade—but he wasn’t even entirely positive, and he didn’t remember that boy’s name at any rate.  Peter had thought over the math: over two million people lived in Queens alone.  If half of them had vanished, and even just one percent of that lost their homes in the five years they were away, that would still be ten-thousand people homeless in just one borough.  It wasn’t really a surprise he didn’t recognize anyone.  Peter vaguely wondered how many centers like this had been set up around the city.

He felt a sense of loss when he had to return his dishes to the volunteers, his brain registering that it was yet one more thing he didn’t have anymore.  He never realized he had taken having plates and bowls and spoons for granted, but they were intrinsically as important as the food that was served on them. 

Peter continued exploring and discovered a series of multi-purpose rooms down one hallway, all dedicated to different functions.  One was filled with tables, chairs, and couches, and it was used as a meeting place and lounge.  The second was a career center, focused on helping people find jobs.  The third and largest room had a daily rotating schedule of volunteer-run services, all of which were outlined in sharpie on a big poster board next to the door.  On Sundays, it provided worship services to multiple faiths.  Mondays and Wednesdays transformed the space into a Salvation Army pop-up-shop for clothes and other necessities, while Tuesdays and Thursdays saw the room filled with volunteers trained to help people find housing.  Counselors offered their services pro bono on Fridays, and on Saturdays, there were nurses available for something that might have resembled a health clinic.

Peter was in luck that today was a Wednesday, and he pressed through the masses of people to look through the donated clothing.  The pop-up shop, not unlike the rest of the facility, was understaffed and overcrowded.  Even at this early hour, their limited stock apparently meant that finding what you needed in your size was a race against the clock.  Peter started looking through a rack of men’s clothing and quickly realized that, though nothing cost more than five dollars, he couldn’t afford any of it.  He pulled out the money from his pants pocket.  He only had six dollars left over from the taxi ride, and he had hoped to get multiple pieces of clothing.

“There’s a discount bin over there,” a volunteer in a red apron kindly said, spotting him staring at the crumpled up bills in his fist.  Peter looked over to the corner where she indicated and saw a large cardboard box filled with various slightly-wrinkled items of clothing.  He made his way toward it and picked up the first t-shirt he could get his hands on, hunting for the price tag.  Fifty cents.  A strange sense of relief flooded through him.

In the end, Peter was able to get two t-shirts that were only slightly stained, an old hoodie for NYU that had long ago lost the drawstring in its hood, a pair of jeans whose knees were threatening to wear into holes very soon, and a couple of pairs of socks that had been dyed a dingy-grey from being washed with colors.  He remembered May telling him on one of their many Goodwill trips, “ _Never buy underwear from a thrift store!_ ” but Peter was admittedly desperate, and the pack of hideous magenta-colored boxers were clean and packaged in a way that made him believe (or maybe just hope very hard) that they had been donated from a store that couldn’t end up selling them, rather than from an individual.  Though in any case, he literally couldn’t afford to be picky—the whole haul had left him with a dollar twenty-five in change.

He had been hoping to buy a phone charger sometime soon, but he didn’t even have enough for a cheap generic one anymore.  He’d just have to make do with the makeshift charging station set up in the main gym until he could somehow get more money.

Really, he needed a job.  That was obviously the most reliable way to afford necessities, but still, Peter was reluctant.  What if May had moved out of state, or even just out of New York City?  It would be a scummy thing to go through the process of being hired and trained at someplace just to have to quit it a week or two later and leave them without help when he moved. 

 _One week_ , he decided.  That’s how long he’d give it.  If he was at the YMCA for longer than a week, he would go to the career center and start job hunting. 

He was silently praying it wouldn’t come to that.  Peter couldn’t conceptualize the thought of going a week without May.  He couldn’t even imagine what tomorrow would look like.  Everything was wrong and confusing, and he didn’t know what would come next.

He tried to turn his thoughts to something else, but none of the options were particularly pleasant.  The first thing that came to mind, as he readjusted his backpack after filling it with his new pre-owned clothes, was laundry.  How was he supposed to do that?  He’d never really been bothered with washing his clothes promptly before, much to May’s continued annoyance, and he’d constantly been lectured about leaving piles of clothes on the floor of his room.  Now, when he had no detergent and no money to go to a laundromat, laundry suddenly seemed very important. 

It was one more thing to add to the list of questions he didn’t have answers to, and to the list of things he didn’t have.  Peter’d had a stomachache all morning, and he was starting to think it wasn’t because of anything he’d eaten.  He remembered more clearly than he would like the first few months after his parents’ deaths when he would literally become sick with stress.  When that happened, Ben would rub his back, May would give him ginger-ale, and he’d get lots of hugs and reassurances that everything would be okay before going to sleep in their bed—the only way to fend off his nightmares. 

Peter’s heart started to ache alongside his stomach.

He passed by the YMCA daycare, filled with children that had reappeared in the world with no one to claim them.  Through the windows, they looked relatively unaffected as they played with toys and ran around.  Maybe they didn’t even understand what had happened; Peter barely understood it himself.  Hopefully, they would be reunited with their parents, but he knew there was a chance that some of them wouldn’t.

He thought about Tony, now a parent himself.  Peter wondered what he was doing.  Was he still recovering at the hospital?  Or had Wakanda’s superior medical technology healed him enough to send him home?  Either way, Peter knew he was with his family.  He couldn’t get the image of them out of his head, huddled close and seeking comfort from each other in the wake of a war, in the celebration of life.  Peter was happy for them.  He was.  But he couldn’t help the raw feeling of longing that surged through him every time he thought of them.

His moping was interrupted with the sound of a shout.  The hairs on the back of Peter’s neck pricked up.

The commotion came from down another hall Peter had been approaching, and he hurried his pace to see what was going on.  He turned into a wing of office spaces, the room numbers of which he recognized from the appointment board in the lobby, and through the halfway-open door of one office he saw a woman standing with her back pressed up against the wall.  A man leaned over the desk that separated the two of them, a pocket knife flicked open and pointed at the vague direction of her chest.  Peter couldn’t see his face from this angle, but he could hear the desperation in his voice when he shouted.

 _"_ I want her _back!_ ”

“I know.  Just, please, sir, put the knife down—”

“No!  Give me my daughter!”

Peter came closer to the door, and the woman spotted him.  Her wide eyes shot Peter a quick, pleading look before they darted back to the man, quick enough to not give away Peter’s position.  He noticed her hands trembling slightly at her sides, but she was otherwise remarkably composed as she tried to reason with the man.

“I’ll do everything I can to help, I promise.  I’ll call social services, and we can get you a lawyer—”

“I shouldn’t _need_ a lawyer!  Rosie is _mine,_ and you just shipped her off to live with some _imposter_ family that doesn’t have any _right!_ ” he jabbed the knife a couple of inches forward through the air, and the woman flinched.  Still, her voice stayed calm.

“Sir, she was two years old, she needed someone to take care of her.  You were gone for five years, but we had no idea anyone was ever coming back…”

“Well, I’m back now!  And I want her back!”

Peter inched even closer, starting to open the door as quietly as possible.

“It’s not so easy, her foster family legally adopted her,” the woman explained gently.  “They’re all she’s known for most of her childhood now.  You have to understand, there’s no precedent for this.  I’m not in charge of making those kinds of decisions, but I swear I’ll help you in any way I can.  Please.  Just put down the knife.”

“She’s all I have left,” the man said, voice hitching on a sob.  “Her mom died when she was born, she’s the only good thing in my life…” the hand holding the knife started to waver, and Peter took that as his chance.  The door now opened wide enough to slip inside, he leaped toward the man and, with lightning-fast reflexes, seized his wrist and twisted.  Taken by complete surprise, the man dropped the knife immediately and put up little fight as Peter tackled him to the ground.  He kicked the weapon to the far side of the room and held the man’s hands behind his back while the woman jumped to her phone to call security.  Peter felt movement beneath him, and his heart twisted when he realized the man was now shuddering with sobs.  Within a couple of minutes, an officer arrived on the scene, handcuffed the man, and took him away.  When things were finally calm again, the woman slowly took off her glasses and placed them on her desk.  Then she sunk down in the office chair, closed her eyes, and let out a large, shaky sigh of relief before briefly rubbing her temples.

“I can’t thank you enough, young man.  I’d like to think he wouldn’t have actually hurt me, but…”

“He sounded pretty desperate,” Peter acknowledged.

“Yes.  And I don’t entirely blame him either, this whole thing has been difficult for everyone…but I’m sure you know that already.  I’m sorry, but what’s your name?”

“Peter.”

She held out her hand, and he shook it.  “I’m Helen, it’s nice to meet you.  Do you have a last name, Peter?”

Peter hesitated, then realized there was no good reason to not answer.  “Parker.”

“Well, Peter Parker,” she pulled a sticky note off of a pad and started to scribble something on it, then stuck it to her desk.  Peter noticed that her entire desktop was covered in the multi-colored squares, “I’m assuming you have a case here, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll do my best to expedite it for you.  As a thank you.  I really don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t shown up when you did.”

The offer was surprising. For a moment, Peter didn’t know what to say.  Finally, he stuttered out, “I—I really appreciate it.  Thanks.”

There was a knock on the open door, and they both turned to see a woman standing there, a hesitant expression on her face.  She must be Helen’s next appointment, Peter surmised.  He started to back out of the room, and Helen waved the woman in.

“It’s really the least I can do,” she said, smiling at him.  “Thank you again, and hopefully I’ll be seeing you soon with good news.”

As Peter left, he thought about the man with a knife.  How many people out there were in the same position as him?  How would the government or whoever dealt with that sort of stuff fix it?  _Can_ they fix it?  He was certainly glad he wasn’t the one who had to make those kinds of tough decisions, and he could imagine that ever since Thanos had first snapped his fingers, there had been nothing but tough decisions to confront. 

In any case, he had the feeling that the man wouldn’t be seeing his daughter for a very long time.

Peter only hoped his own situation would have a much happier ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you for all your kind responses to this fic. 
> 
> It's been so fascinating to me to explore the mechanics of the snap and all of the complications that would come with it in a realized society, and I hope you (perhaps in some weird way) enjoy exploring it with me as well. I truly believe the five-year time jump screwed the world up 1000% more than it would have been if it had just lasted, say, one year, and you KNOW all subsequent MCU writers/directors (even in Far From Home) won't address the majority of it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Answers.

Peter didn’t sleep much.

He’d lay on the stiff gym mat for hours, willing his senses to calm down.  With hundreds of people sharing one space, it was never truly quiet.  There was constant noise: snoring, sniffing, coughing, whispering.  To most people, it would be a nuisance.  To Peter, at night when he had nothing else to distract himself, it was a cacophony.

It was never truly dark, either.  Amber light from the streetlamps outside poured through the windows situated near the ceiling of the gym.  It filled the room with an amber glow that permeated through Peter’s eyelids when he tried to close them.  It surrounded him, consumed him, and when he eventually drifted off each night after hours of insomnia, the sodium lamps morphed monstrously into the light of the soul stone.  The orange nothingness of the snap surrounded him, isolated him, left him unable to speak or move.  It took everything from him.  And when he woke, he was paralyzed with the fear that he was still there.  His body and mind wouldn’t register where he was for ages, and even when it finally did, a small voice lingered in the back of Peter’s mind that said,

 _None of it is real_.

Sometimes he was able to shake the voice.  Sometimes he was not able, and the words lingered until the cycle started over again.

* * *

_“The United Nations reports that they have been consulting with an anonymous ‘expert’ on the events of the Vanishing in order to determine what steps need to be taken to restore order worldwide after the return of what is estimated to be nearly four billion people.  Crucially, it has been determined that the Vanished have only physically aged by about two weeks, despite five years passing as we know it.  The United States and many other countries have interpreted this information into new standards for identification.  I’ll hand it off to Tom to explain this in detail.”_

_“Thank you, Joan.  As of yesterday afternoon, Congress has passed a bill requiring every citizen born before 2013 to hold a valid form of identification.  This identification must conform to new standards that clearly indicate if the holder was Vanished, and government agencies across the country are expected to make those IDs available to Vanished citizens starting today.  Over the course of the next year, all non-Vanished citizens will also be required to update their identification to new designs intended to prevent those who were Vanished from possibly passing off old forms of ID as valid.”_

_“Now, Tom, that sounds a little discriminatory.  Why is identifying Vanished individuals so important?”_

_“Well, Joan, like you said, the Vanished have only physically aged about two weeks during the past five years.  What you also have to remember, though, is that their mental and emotional age has also only increased by that much time.  If the government didn’t insist on a means of identifying these individuals, for example, a sixteen-year-old could legally buy alcohol, or a ten-year-old child could apply for a driver’s permit.  Their birthdates would technically conform to the current laws.”_

_“How chaotic that would be!  In other news, previously Vanished business tycoon Theodore Klein has divested all money from his estate and is now calling himself a religious prophet…”_

Peter returned his empty breakfast tray and left the small gym before the news report streaming on someone’s phone could finish.  Yesterday evening, staff at the YMCA had announced that they would indeed be bringing in personnel and equipment to issue new IDs to all inhabitants.  They’d be taking up the multi-purpose room that had been acting as a lounge for the immediate future.  Peter was up early again and hoped to get his as quickly as possible.  It was one step toward normalcy and independence (it was amazing how many important things in life required identification), but he also had a bigger reason to get his life back on track:

He had his appointment today.

Helen had apparently made good on her promise; it had only been three days since he’d helped her out.  Though the woman who first admitted Peter had suggested that the minimum waiting period to get an appointment was a few days, he had quickly realized from the grumblings of the other residents at the center that the reality was closer to a week, usually longer. 

His appointment slot was at two, which left him plenty of time to get a new ID.  When he entered the multi-purpose room, he was confronted with three separate lines leading up to staff members with computers, cameras, and special printers.  Some tables near the door had paper forms to fill out, and Peter quickly completed one with all the necessary information before dutifully waiting his turn in line.  It took a while, as everything else did here, but he eventually reached the front.  He handed the form over to the man behind the desk when he held out his hand expectantly.  The man started typing information into his computer and, without even looking at Peter, jerked his head to the side to indicate the camera next to him.

“Go stand in front of that backdrop, remove all glasses and nonreligious head coverings, look at the camera, and don’t move.”

Peter did as he was told.  After another minute of typing, the man pressed a button and the camera in front of Peter clicked.  In a moment, a plastic ID card was being spat out of the printer, and the man thrust it in Peter’s direction while simultaneously waving him away.  “Next!”

Peter retreated out into the significantly less crowded hallway before looking at his new ID.  In many ways, it looked like the one he used to have.  State of New York, picture in the corner, his name and all the usual information.  However, there was a large, bold “V” enclosed in a circle in the opposite corner to his picture, and his birthdate was highlighted in red.  In between his birthdate and expiry date was a third date, one five years later than his birthdate and labeled with “Equiv. DOB”.  He assumed it was so that anyone checking his ID didn’t have to do as much math.

He didn’t like being Vanished.  The adjective held a heavy connotation whenever people spoke it out loud, but Peter couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was.  All he could tell was that the word came with the sense of burden, though whether that burden was on those who had been victim to the Snap or those who lived through its aftermath seemed to change depending on who was talking. 

Of course, it wasn’t like Peter hadn’t had certain qualities singled out before—bullies were especially good at that.  Over various points of his life, he’d been defined as an orphan, as poor, as weak and socially awkward; but he had come to terms with those things and embraced them as what made him, him.  He didn’t want to embrace Vanished.  It hadn’t done anything so far but make his life hell.

Still, he was stuck with it now, Peter thought as he stowed the new ID into his back pocket, and at least he wasn’t alone.  Statistically, half the population now shared that label. 

He made his way back to the main gym, where he had spent most of his time since arriving at the YMCA.  He hadn’t gone outside once, feeling a churning sense of anxiety every time he neared the front doors, not wanting to subject himself to just how much the world had moved on without him.  He sat down on his sleeping bag and assumed what had become a familiar routine: he emptied his pockets and backpack one item at a time, cataloguing.

One phone, still no charger.  One new ID.  One dollar and twenty-five cents.  Three shirts (including the one he was wearing), two pairs of pants, three pairs of socks, four pairs of boxers.  A hoodie.  A pair of shoes. 

He had a plastic bag with one 3oz bottle each of shampoo and conditioner, a small stick of deodorant, and one bar of soap that had been about half the size of a credit card when he’d first gotten it, but now looked more like a rounded over lump.  He had a small tube of shaving gel and a cheap, two-blade razor, both of which Peter hadn’t really found himself using.  One towel that was starting to smell musty in the dense, uncirculated air of the center.

A small bible had been given to Peter by some visiting Christian volunteers.  Peter wasn’t really religious and had no intentions of reading it, but he’d accepted it because his mind voraciously desired to call one more thing his own.  He’d also found a barely-functioning ballpoint pen advertising a local blood bank, and he had two apples hoarded away from breakfast—a habit he’d started picking up for when he wanted a snack or didn’t want to face the more populated lunch and dinner crowds.  Near the bottom of his backpack was the crumpled up map he’d been handed on his first day and the trash bag he’d hauled his belongings in.  He didn’t know what to do with it, but he couldn’t find himself getting rid of it.

Lastly, he ran his fingers over the fabric of his spider-suit, not removing it from his backpack.  He hadn’t worn it since the battle against Thanos, but its presence was comforting, somehow.  The last vestiges of what his life had been like before.

Sometimes he thought about finding a secluded place and slipping the mask on again, just so he could have someone to talk to.  He missed Karen.  But what would he say?

_“Yeah, so I’m basically at a homeless shelter with no money and almost no possessions, waiting for news about my aunt that I can’t get in contact with and haven’t seen for five years.  What’s up?”_

At best, she wouldn’t be able to help him.  At worst, she would try to call Tony, and that was the last thing Peter wanted.  He could handle this on his own.  He would meet with Helen about his case today, she would help him out, and things would be okay.  “ _Be with your family_ ,” Tony had said; Peter wasn’t about to bother the man who was undoubtedly trying to live in peace with his own.  He thought of the term Vanished once again, remembered the uncomfortable weight of that word. 

_Don’t be a burden._

Yes, Peter could definitely deal with this himself.

* * *

 

Time seemed to move at a snail’s pace that day, especially with so little to occupy himself with, but eventually, the clock struck two.

Peter smiled when he saw Helen, and she looked genuinely happy to see him again too.  However, his smile faltered slightly when he saw a man he didn’t recognize sitting to the side of her desk.

“Hello again, Peter, please sit down,” Helen greeted.  She didn’t acknowledge the man’s presence, so tentatively, Peter followed suit.  He sunk down into the empty chair opposite her, tapping his fingers restlessly against the wood of the armrests while she organized a few papers and post-it notes on her desk. When she looked up at him again, her expression was unreadable.

Peter immediately felt on-edge.

“So Peter, you were looking to find your aunt, May Parker.”

It wasn’t a question, but Peter answered anyway, “Yes.”

She looked down at her paperwork for a brief moment once more, as if she was trying to delay speaking to him.  When she finally did, her voice was full of genuine remorse.  “There’s no easy way to say this…I’m very sorry to tell you, but your aunt has passed away.”

A beat.  Then,

 

Peter

 

        Felt

 

                Himself

 

                          Slipping.

 

“No,” he insisted.  “No, she moved away, changed her phone number or something.  She never had social media so you wouldn’t find here there, but she’s _not…_ ”

“She was hit by a drunk driver two-and-a-half years ago.  We found her death certificate and autopsy report, they confirmed her identity with dental records and everything.  I’m sorry.”

 _None of it is real_.

“But Peter, we were able to track down your records too, and it’s come to our attention that you no longer have any relatives to take care of you.  Now this,” she finally gestured to the mysterious man in the room, who had thus far watched the proceedings silently, “is Mr. Yates.  He’s with Social Services, and since you’re a minor, he’ll be working on your case.”

 _You’re not real_.

“You’re very lucky, young man—”

_Lucky?_

“—we’ve managed to find a placement for you despite a current shortage of volunteers—”

But Peter wasn’t listening anymore.  His brain was light as air, and his body was inconsequential, incorporeal, as he existed outside of it.  He was floating once again, a sensation that was becoming increasingly familiar to him.  For the first time, he longed to stay there. 

Periods of lucidity were sporadic while in the soul stone, but when they happened, Peter had wanted nothing more than to go home and see his family. 

Now, he had no home, his family was dead, and he wished he had never come back at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. You knew it was coming. I warned you some things were worse.
> 
> Please let me know what you think if you're so inclined. I'm trying to be more introspective in this fic, and I can't tell how successful that is.
> 
> As always, thank you all for your readership and support.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wasn’t going to a _foster family_ , he was going to a _placement_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE NOT YET SEEN FAR FROM HOME, AND THIS FIC WILL NOT CONTAIN SPOILERS FROM IT. I have no idea if any of my ideas mirror any explanations given in FFH, but if so that’s a complete coincidence. That being said, this story runs entirely AU to that timeline, which I'm sure you've already guessed.

Peter wasn’t going to a _foster family_ , he was going to a _placement_.

“There’s no point in finding you a long term family when you’re so close to aging out of the system,” Mr. Yates said plainly, as if it made all the sense in the world.

_You’re not worth having a family_ , is what Peter heard when his mind finally stopped reeling.  During his career as Spider-Man, he had actually been stabbed in the gut once before, but the pain this man’s words elicited was sharper.  It left him feeling winded and hollow, as if all the life had been drained out of his body.  Either he was extremely callous or completely oblivious—Peter wasn’t sure what was worse.

“This couple was particularly insistent on housing older children like yourself.  They already have two others, but they’ve agreed to take you in as well.”

“You won’t have to sleep on a gym floor anymore,” Helen said hopefully, but it didn’t soften the blow.

A thought came to Peter suddenly.  

“What about my aunt’s stuff?” he croaked out.  His mouth had gone dry.  Mr. Yates frowned.  Helen looked more sympathetic.

“I’m afraid all of her assets were seized after her death in order to pay off her debts and cover the funeral costs.”

He wasn’t even focusing.  His brain and mouth felt like they were on autopilot, releasing every notion that came to him uncensored.  “But…she had a box of pictures?  Family photos.  It was on the top shelf of her closet.  And she had this watch from Ben that had been passed down through the family, she said she was going to give it to me on my eighteenth birthday—”

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Helen interrupted gently.  “It’s all gone.”

They talked logistics.  Peter hardly took any of it in—he was already floating away, barely tethered to this chair, to this tiny office in the YMCA in Queens.  It was easier to let himself drift.  Before he knew it, he was being hugged by awkwardly by Helen, and then Yates was leading him back to the main gym, telling him to pack up his stuff.  Peter stood there dumbly for a moment.  The man looked frustrated, then gave a sigh and started telling Peter what he needed to do one step at a time.  Put the sleeping bag, pillow, and towel into the trash bag—they needed to be returned.  He was allowed to keep everything else.  Go to the guest services desk.  Give a new employee that was not Shaun or Ryan from his first day the trash bag.  Sign a form.  The next thing Peter knew, he was sitting in the backseat of a car, hugging his backpack to his chest.

“You hungry?” Yates asked, never taking his eyes off the road as he drove.  Peter didn’t respond, and the man sighed.  “You know, you’re lucky.  We’re processing a lot of kids right now, and we don’t have a lot of places for them to go.  The Franks are a generous, hardworking couple.  Mr. Frank owns his own landscaping company, even.”

Peter wasn’t sure if that was supposed to sound impressive.  Instead, he tightened his grip on his backpack and stared vacantly out the car window, imagining himself escaping, flying away up past the skyscrapers and into the clouds.

“You even get to go back to that fancy school of yours.  We called.  They were willing to uphold the scholarship you were getting five years ago—you start Monday.  The semester started at the beginning of September, so you’ll have a bit to catch up on, but you won’t be too far behind.”

They passed by a billboard advertising for a big haunted house located upstate  Peter registered stickers of pumpkins and bats in one shop window, and a carved jack-o-lantern stared out at the street from its place on a fire escape.  In the age of technology and with a phone that read the date on its home screen, there was no way that he _didn’t_ know it was October; but that fact hadn’t truly hit him until now.  Really, he’d had no reason to care about what time of year it was up until that point.  The only thing he’d been thinking about was how much time he had lost.

“We’re here,” Yates said after a few more minutes, pulling up in front of an apartment building.  They were still in Queens, but it was an area that Peter wasn’t overly familiar with.  He followed Yates through the front doors and up the stairs to the third floor.  The buzzer had a big piece of duct tape over it indicating it was broken, so the man raised his hand and knocked.

The door opened and they were met with a middle-aged woman.  Her hair that was more grey than blonde was pulled into a tight bun, and she was wearing a hideous hot pink muumuu.  Her eyes narrowed when she looked at them.  “This the boy?”

“Yes, hello Mrs. Frank, this is Peter,” if Peter thought her greeting was unfriendly, Mr. Yates didn’t seem to notice.  He gently pushed Peter’s shoulder, encouraging him to move forward.  Mrs. Frank stepped back from the door, and he tentatively entered the apartment.  Mr. Yates didn’t follow. 

“And thanks again for taking him in ma’am, it’s a huge help to us,” the man continued.  Mrs. Frank grunted in acknowledgment.

“You all have a good night then.” And without another word, Yates turned around and left.

Mrs. Frank gestured for Peter to follow her.  They passed through the living room, a TV with no one watching it playing Wheel of Fortune on mute.  The kitchen was directly opposite, and a dark-haired girl around Peter’s age stood at the sink washing dishes.  She glanced at him curiously as they walked past but said nothing. 

“Dinner is over.  If you’re hungry you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.  School gives you free food, so you’ll eat breakfast and lunch there during the week.  Dinner is at six p.m. every night; if you miss it, you go hungry.  While you live here you’ll pull your weight—starting Monday, you’ll be going to work with Mr. Frank.  This is your room; the bathroom’s down the hall.  Any questions?”

Peter’s brain struggled to process all of the information he was just given.  He still felt that part of himself was floating away.  It was like his mind and body weren’t entirely connected to each other, and that everything he did, from the steps he took to the breaths he breathed, wasn’t really being done by _him._  Some part of him registered that he probably should have questions, but he was too disoriented to think, so instead he just dumbly shook his head.  Mrs. Frank left him in front of a half-open door, retreating back into the living room to presumably finish that episode of Wheel of Fortune. 

Taking a deep breath, Peter pushed the door open completely and entered the room.  It was small, and another boy was already occupying the one real bed in the room.  Against the opposite wall, and taking up most of the rest of the floor space, a camp bed had been set up with what appeared to be an inflatable mattress.  The only other furniture in the room was a small end table with a lamp and alarm clock, and a dresser crammed into the corner.  It was plain, claustrophobic, and devoid of any warmth.

The boy looked up from the beat-up library paperback he’d been reading as Peter deposited his backpack on the camp bed and sat down.  He, like the girl, didn’t say anything.  That was okay, though, because Peter didn’t particularly feel like talking.  He shifted his body until he was laying down facing the wall.  He stared ahead blankly, feeling exhausted and numb.

There was a small rustling sound, and then the steady _swish_ of pages turning.  The boy had gone back to his book.

Peter’s not sure how long he laid there.  He’s not sure if he fell asleep or simply blacked out for a while, but eventually, he registered that the blinds had been closed over the window and the lamp had been turned on to combat the encroaching darkness of night.  He turned to lay on his back.  He didn’t feel better, but he felt a little more present than he had before.

“You can have the bottom two drawers,” the other boy said quietly from his side of the room.  Peter looked at him; he was still reading his book, now significantly further into it than when Peter had first entered the room.  He then looked to the dresser, crawled to the foot of his bed to reach it, and pulled open the bottom drawer.  It was indeed empty.  He unzipped his backpack and emptied all of his belongings except the spider-suit into it.  The total sum of his stuff barely took up half the drawer.

“I’m Marco,” the boy said.

Peter closed the drawer and pushed himself backward until his back was against the wall.  “Peter.”

Neither of them said anything after that.  In time, Marco dog-eared his book, Peter changed into the set of Bruce’s old clothes that had turned into the closest thing he had for pajamas, and the light was turned off.  In a familiar routine, insomnia kept him awake for hours despite his exhaustion.  But as he laid there staring into the darkness for what felt like hours, he could hear the small, telltale creaks of the springs in Marco’s mattress as he tossed and turned.

He was suffering too.  A small part of Peter felt comforted by that, when the thought occurred to him, he was awash with self-hatred.

Eventually, he fell asleep like he had every night since he’d come back: clutching his backpack in his arms, trying to draw comfort from it as if it were an old teddy bear.  That night though, when the nightmares inevitably came, they were different. 

They were worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some thoughts for anyone who cares: First, terminology. In my headcanon, only the Avengers/those closely allied with the Avengers call Thanos’s genocide “the snap”. Thanos didn’t broadcast his actions to the world as they happened, so I don’t believe the average citizen would even know that it was the result of him physically snapping his fingers. Apparently, some non-canonical tie-in book called it “The Decimation” but I’ve settled on the idea that it’s called “The Vanishing”, since we saw Scott encounter that memorial “Wall to the Vanished”.
> 
> …I just used far too many quotation marks.
> 
> The MCU wiki places the Battle of Earth on October 17. This chapter takes place roughly a week after that, but I'm not concerning myself too much with specific dates.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter reconnects with some of the most important people in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adding slow build as a tag (though I don't think it's super-slow). This fic is very exploratory for me, and it's going to delve into a lot of my headcanony aspects of Peter's life after Endgame. There are a lot of different relationships that will show up in these chapters, and I think you'll (hopefully) be intrigued by some of them.
> 
> As always, thank you for your kind responses and feedback. <3

_He was on Titan.  Everything was going wrong._

_It was too quiet._

_The hairs on the back of Peter’s neck pricked up.  His spider-sense rocketed through his body like an electric current as he helped Mr. Stark to his feet._

_“Something’s happening,” the weird mantis-lady said.  Mr. Stark stumbled toward her._

_The electric current grew stronger._

_Then she turned into dust and floated away._

_The others were going too, he could see them dissolve in his peripheral vision, but he couldn’t concentrate because suddenly the electric current had changed from a tingling sensation to shocking pain.  His nerves felt like they were on fire, and his stomach rebelled in a wave of nausea so strong, it was as if his body thought that his entire existence was a virus that needed to be expelled._

_“Mr. Stark,” Peter was not a hero at that moment.  He was a child, and he needed someone to save him.  His mentor turned, a horrorstruck expression on his face.  “I don’t feel so good.”_

_Help me._

_“You’re alright.”_

_He was dying._

_“I don’t—I don’t know what’s happening, I don’t know—” he stumbled forward, only saved from hitting the ground by Mr. Stark’s arms wrapping around him.  His body was falling apart.  He could feel it splitting, atom by atom.  A strangled sound made its way out of his throat, and he clutched his mentor like he was a lifeline.  Peter was terrified._

_“I don’t want to go.  I don’t want to go, sir, please…”_

_His legs gave out.  He was already starting to feel distant._

_“Please, I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go!” he sobbed.  His back hit the rocky ground, and Mr. Stark’s face looked down at him, distraught.  The last thing he felt was Mr. Stark’s hand gripping his shoulder with desperate, bruising strength._

_“I’m sorry.”_

_Then the orange sky of Titan consumed his vision until all it was all he could see.  He no longer felt Mr. Stark.  He no longer felt any pain.  He no longer felt anything at all.  Instead, he was floating in a plain of orange nothingness, unconscious of his body or mind, except…_

_No.  Something was wrong.  The flatness in front of him was resolving itself into a street, into the passenger seat of a car, and when he turned his head he saw his aunt driving.  She looked tired, but she gripped the wheel tightly and kept her eyes straight ahead._

_He was still in the soul stone.  But he was here too.  He couldn’t feel anything, and then he could feel his spider-sense, pain, blinding and burning just as badly as it had on Titan._

_“May, stop.”_

_She didn’t hear him._

_“May, stop!  Stop, May, please!” Peter yelled desperately as they approached the intersection, but she continued on anyway.  Horns blared, headlights flashed, and the truck came barreling towards them, and Peter screamed and screamed and screamed…_

He was pulled abruptly from sleep by a hand frantically shoving at his shoulder.  His throat burned, and he distantly realized he must’ve been screaming in real life.  He gasped in a lungful of air.  Seeing that he was awake and calm, Marco backed away.

“Breakfast is in the kitchen,” he said, and then he padded out of the room.

Peter turned over to read on the alarm clock that it was only eight in the morning.  He sighed and rolled back over.  Despite getting more than eight hours of sleep, he still felt a weariness deep in his bones. 

He grabbed a fresh set of clothes and his leftover bag of toiletries and shoved them into his backpack, preparing to take a shower.  The backpack hadn’t left his side for an instant since he’d first gotten it, and Peter was planning to keep it that way.  Marco hadn’t given off any hostile vibes so far, but there was no way he was going to leave his spider-suit anywhere that someone else could potentially snoop and find it.  Belongings slung across his back, he made his way to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. 

The toilet was adorned with a hideous, fuzzy pink seat cover, and there was a matching rug and bath mat on the floor.  The shower had an equally garish floral shower curtain that looked like it was purchased sometime in the 90s.  Opening it, Peter was somewhat relieved to see bulk-sized bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.  They were cheap and, when he inspected them closely, smelled more like plastic than the “Waterfall” their labels suggested; but they meant that Peter wouldn’t have to worry when his travel-sized bottles ran out.

He was reminded once again that he still had basically no money with which to buy things.  He’d have to figure that out sooner rather than later.

Peter showered and dressed quickly, allowing the lukewarm water to metaphorically wash away the last vestiges of fear that lingered in his gut from his nightmare.  He refused to think about what it had meant.

Then, he found Marco and the girl from the previous night in the kitchen.  She was sat at the table with a plate of toast while Marco scrambled eggs at the stove.  Seeing them both together, Peter noticed that they looked remarkably alike, and he guessed that they were siblings, if not twins.

The girl smiled at him in a much warmer reception than he’d gotten last night.  “Hi, I’m Isabel.”

Peter sat down. “I’m Peter.”

“Yeah, I heard the social worker last night.  Hope you like eggs and toast, Peter.  It’s the only thing we have for breakfast.  Every day.  Except when we run out of eggs.”

Marco opened the fridge to grab more eggs, and Peter noticed that it was indeed remarkably empty.  Before Marco closed it, he only saw the carton of eggs, a gallon of milk, butter, and a few condiments.

“Do they starve us or something?” Peter asked.

“No, they’re just cheap,” Isabel replied with a shrug.  “When it comes to anyone that’s not themselves, anyway.  They get takeout most days, and Marco thinks they have a mini-fridge in their bedroom. But we get eggs and toast, PB and J, and endless amounts of mac and cheese.”

“I like mac and cheese,” Peter said tentatively.

“You won’t,” Marco said quietly as he moved the finished pan of eggs to the table.

Peter made up a plate of food, strictly controlling his portion despite the sudden onset of ravenous hunger, mindful of the fact that there wasn’t much and it needed to be split between the three of them.  “Where are the Franks now?” 

“Sleeping.  They always sleep in on Sunday, and it’s best for everyone to not wake them.  There aren’t a lot of rules here, but if you stay out of their way, you’re usually fine.” Isabel said.

“Don’t interrupt Mrs. Frank’s Jeopardy,” Marco added.

They made small talk for the rest of breakfast, mostly between Peter and Isabel with occasional comments by Marco.  Peter learned that they were, in fact, twins, and that they turned eighteen in six months.  Once they were legal adults, they were going to live with one of Isabel’s non-Vanished friends who had a place in Vermont.  Until then, they were mostly just biding their time.

Peter hadn’t anticipated becoming attached to either of them, but that piece of information sealed it.  He felt empty inside as he smiled and told them they were lucky.  A part of him was glad that he had at least a couple of nice people he could talk to occasionally in this strange new life, no matter for how short a time, but he was jealous.  Because they _were_ lucky.  They had a plan, a place to go, and it wouldn’t take them too long to get there.  Peter was only sixteen—he wouldn’t be allowed to escape this system for another two years.

A raw sense of longing invaded him, making it difficult to stomach his bland eggs and overcooked toast.  As soon as breakfast was over, Peter fled as far as the front stoop of the apartment building.

He pulled out his phone. 

It had been turned off ever since he’d left the YMCA.  He still didn’t have a charger, and he’d been worried about running out of battery (though it looked like Marco had a similar model phone, so he’d have to ask him about it).  Free phone service ended tomorrow, though, and Peter knew he wouldn’t be able to pay his next bill, so he’d soon be restricted to Wi-Fi.

And he needed to make a call.  Because as the hollow feeling of loneliness overcame him, Peter knew he desperately needed a friend.

_Dialing…_

_Ring…_

_Ring…_

_Ring…_

_“Oh my god.”_

“Ned?”

_“Peter?”_

“Yeah, Ned, it’s me.”

_“Oh my god, you’re back.  Of course you’re back, I mean, that’s what they’ve been saying, everyone’s back, but I guess I just didn’t think…”_

“Wait,” Peter’s heart sunk in his chest.  Deep down, he’d been expecting this, but there was still some part of him that still held out hope.  He gripped the phone tighter in his hand.  “You mean, you…weren’t?”

Hesitation on the other end of the phone.  Then, “ _No.  I wasn’t.  I’m sorry.”_

Very suddenly, Peter’s eyes felt hot.  His best friend was five years older than him now.  Spent five years without Peter in his life—or maybe, Peter missed out on five more years with Ned.  He determined to push those feelings aside for the moment, but it still felt like he was starting to choke on them when he let out a watery laugh and said,  “You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice, man.”

_“Probably about how good it is to hear yours.”_

“Yeah, I—” Peter blinked a few tears out of his eyes, “Could we meet up and talk?  So much has happened, and I’m sure you have questions, and—”

“ _I’m sorry, dude, I can’t,”_ Ned cut him off gently.  “ _I’m, uh…I’m in California.”_

“California?”

_“Yeah, uh, I’m going to Stanford.  Double-majoring in electrical engineering and computer science, I’m on a five-year track…”_

“Oh.”

“ _Yeah, it’s…it’s cool,”_ Ned admitted tentatively.

“But I thought you wanted to go to MIT?” Peter asked in confusion.  That had been their plan since middle school.  Graduate high school, go to MIT (not at all influenced by one of their heroes), major in something they actually cared about.  They’d go to college parties and play beer pong and be cool for the first time in their lives while still maintaining GPAs in the top tenth percentile.  They used to imagine how awesome it would be to finally break free from common core and dumb jocks and be somewhere they truly and unequivocally belonged.  College was supposed to be great for them.

For both of them.

“ _I did, but Peter, that was_ our _thing, you know?  And once you were gone, it just didn’t feel right.  Besides, after…y’know…I kind of wanted to just get as far away from New York as possible.  You can’t tell anyone’s gone if you’re surrounded by people you’ve never met before, right?  You could kind of pretend none of it had happened.  It almost felt…normal.”_

“I get it,” Peter said.

 _He wanted to pretend you were never in his life.  He wanted to forget,_ the traitorous voice in his head whispered.  No.  No, Peter refused to believe it.  This was Ned.  His best friend.

“But do you think you could come out here?  Just for a little bit?”  He could feel himself starting to get choked up, _god_ he was so alone…

“ _I’m sorry, but I can’t—”_

“May’s dead,” Peter said, a sob escaping from his throat.

“What?  _I—I didn’t know.  Peter—”_

“Ned, please.  I need you.” 

 _“It’s my mom, Peter.  My mom Vanished,”_ he replied, equally sounding on the verge of tears.  “ _She was gone too, for five years, and now she just came back and my dad and her flew all the way out here to be with me.  I just, I can’t leave right now, okay?  I’m so, so sorry.  But it’s_ my mom _.”_

For as strict as she’d always been, Ned adored his mom.  Peter knew that.  He knew how much Ned must have hurt when he realized she was gone.  But he was so lonely and hurting so much, and he allowed his selfishness to take over.

“I don’t have _anyone_ ,”

 _“I—What about Mr. Stark?_ ”

“He’s got his own family now.  I can’t bother him,” Peter furiously rubbed tears from his cheeks.

“ _Dude, he cares about you—”_

“This isn’t like I need a repair on the suit, or I need to be patched up after a fight, okay?”  He was still crying, but he suddenly felt angry, too.  At who, or what, he wasn’t sure, but the white-hot feeling burned in the back of his throat and deep down in his belly.  “May’s dead, all my family is dead, and everything is gone, and now I’m living with two complete strangers who apparently are cheapskates that watch too much Jeopardy and make bad mac n cheese.  And I felt myself _dying,_ and _it hurt so much_ , and I was sent to an orange purgatory, and I still have nightmares about all of it!  And then I came back to find that actually five years had passed for everyone else and everything is different and no one will explain any of it, but apparently everyone did just fine without me so _what’s the point_?”  he took a deep breath.  Ned was silent on the other end of the line.  “That’s not something you can just burden a person with.”

Peter laughed ruefully.

“…after all, I’m just his _intern_.”

 _“I can’t imagine what you’re going through, and it sucks, and I’m so sorry,”_ Ned said weakly.  “ _Look, I’ll be back for Christmas, okay?  That’s not too far away.  And I’ll get my parents to send you some stuff if you can, like, text me your address.”_

“Sure,” Peter said in a hollow voice.  All the fight in him had evaporated completely, and the persistent exhaustion that had plagued him for the past few days had returned.  He slumped against the concrete steps leading up to the apartment, feeling the sharp edge dig into his back.

“ _And you should call MJ.  I think she’s in New York right now, but she probably won’t be for long.  She moves around a lot, she’s in the Peace Corps now and—I’ll just let her tell you.”_

 _“_ Good to know,” Peter felt nothing at the confirmation that MJ also avoided being snapped.  He had no energy left.  But he already knew he had no plans to call her—he didn’t think he’d be able to handle it.

“ _My parents just got back from the store,”_ Ned said, sounding slightly regretful.  “ _Look, if you ever need to talk, you can call me, okay?  I’ll always be here for you, even if I can’t be…there.  But Christmas, okay?”_

“Okay.”

_“Hang in there, Peter.  I love you, man.  I missed you.”_

“Bye, Ned.”

Peter ended the call before Ned could decide to.  He’d hoped that the phone call would help him feel better, but things had only gotten worse.

Like a swift kick to the gut, it started to rain.  Lightly, but the brisk autumn air made the droplets feel cold and harsh.  He didn’t move.  Instead, he stared at the illuminated screen of his phone, at the single voicemail notification that had been displayed from the moment he’d turned it on.  He clicked on it.

It had been left yesterday evening.

It was from Tony Stark.

Peter’s finger hovered over the play button uncertainly.  He honestly had no idea what the man had to say to him.  Couldn’t even begin to guess.  Had he found out what happened?  Surely, that would have warranted more than just a voicemail.  And what would he even say?

No.  It had to be about something else.

He wasn’t sure if he could even handle whatever this was right now.  He really just wanted to find a dark, abandoned place, curl up, and sleep for the rest of his life.  But despite everything, he still craved Mr. Stark’s attention and approval.

He hit the button.

_“Hey, kid.  It’s me.  So, uh, I’m back home now and all—well, mostly—healed up, and I was thinking—we were thinking—we would love to have you over for dinner some night soon.  If you want to, of course.  I know things are probably super hectic right now, and you’re probably still settling back in and spending time with your aunt and stuff—she’s invited too, if she wants to come, by the way—but I thought it could be nice, you could see the house, we could catch up… Again, only if you want to, I won’t be offended in the slightest if you say no, you don’t even have to call me back if you don’t want to come.  But if you do, just give me a call.  At your leisure.  We can figure something out.  So, uh, yeah.  Hope you’re well, kid.”_

The rain was falling heavier now.  It soaked through the fabric of Peter’s worn hoodie and chilled him to the bone.  Drops fell sluggishly from his saturated hair and onto the screen of his phone as he held it in front of him, staring blankly at the screen once more.

He hadn’t known what to expect, but he never would have even guessed a dinner invitation in a million years.  Why?  What did he hope to achieve by inviting Peter?  There was no malicious intent behind it, Peter certainly knew that much, but he’d never invited Peter to _anything_ before outside of superhero battles and the occasional lab session to upgrade his suit.  But that had always been about business.

At least it answered the question on whether or not Mr. Stark had found out about May.  Peter was certain he could get FRIDAY (was it still FRIDAY, or had he upgraded to a different AI by now?) to search through all sorts of sealed-up records and figure out everything, but he’d sounded remarkably hesitant and unsure on the phone.  It was almost as if he was trying to give Peter space and respect his privacy, what with all of that “ _only if you want to_ ” stuff.  It was far from the confidence and bravado that Peter normally associated with the man.

He shouldn’t go.

He shouldn’t want to go.

But he never thought things would get this bad.  And he longed for something familiar, something warm and nice, something, _someone_ , that he cared about (because he still cared about Mr. Stark, no matter what life was like now).

So he called back.

The phone barely got a chance to ring before it was answered.

“ _Hey, kid_.”

“Hey, Mr. Stark.”

Silence.  A long, awkward silence.

Peter coughed.  “So…”

_“Um, yeah, yes!  So, dinner.  Are you interested?  I assumed that’s why you called, but I mean, if it’s not that’s okay too…”_

“No, yeah.  I am interested.  In dinner.  I’d—I’d like that.”

“ _Great!  Is there any evening that works best for you?  Pepper’s arranged for us to have an extended vacation, so we’re free for the foreseeable future.”_

Peter painfully acknowledged that his social calendar was now nonexistent.  “Uh, anything is kind of good for me.  I guess I just have school, so…”

“ _How about Friday, then?  That way we don’t have to worry about getting you home super early on a school night.”_

“Sure.”

“ _And your aunt is very welcome to come too, of course.”_

“Thanks…but, uh…”

He could say it.

_Don’t you dare._

He could tell him everything, right now.

_Don’t be a burden._

“She’s not…she’s still kind of upset about everything, y’know, so she doesn’t really think she can make it.”

He blinked some raindrops out of his eyes.  He was _not_ crying again.

“ _I understand completely, and I respect that,”_ Tony responded seriously.  “ _So, Friday, then, at 6:00?  I can swing by your place around 5:30.”_

“No!” Peter panicked, then rushed to adjust his tone.  “Uh, I mean, I’ll be at the library.  You can pick me up there.  I’ve got a lot of studying to catch up on, you understand…”

 _“Sure, yeah.  God, that’s gotta be rough.  Well, hey, if you have any of that stuff left over that you need a hand with come Friday, maybe I could lend one._ ”

Peter was slightly thrown by the offer.  “Y-yeah.  We’ll see.”

“ _Great, well—Morgan,_ no, _the cat is fat enough, he does_ not _want your bacon!—listen, I gotta go, but if anything changes just give me a call, or a text, or whatever.  I know how you young people are.  I’ll see you Friday, okay?”_

“Friday,” Peter confirmed, starting to feel like he was in a daze.

Then the call ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I get why Ned and MJ couldn't be five years older in the real MCU (and honestly, nor do I think I'd want them to be), but what are the odds that all of Peter's closest friends and classmates would avoid that fate??? We diverge from canon for the Angst.


	8. Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Please Read

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: This fic is on hiatus as it is actively undergoing a rewrite due to recent criticism. Subscribe to this fic or to me as an author to be updated when the rewrite is published.

Over the past couple of chapters, I’ve received a fair bit of criticism on this story—some of it worded very constructively, and some of it not so much.  I’ve written seven other Avengers/Spider-Man fics spanning over 71,000 words, and I’ve never experienced this kind of feedback.  As such, I’ve taken it to heart, and I have decided to rewrite this fanfiction in the hopes of resolving this (understandable and justifiable) criticism and of producing the best story possible for both myself and the readers.

I’ve had many goals for this story.  It’s very exploratory and different from what I’ve done before, and it is certainly the most AU I’ve ever written for any fandom.  I realize now that the way I’ve gone about achieving these goals has been out of character and unbelievable for many people.  I write for myself, first and foremost, but the thoughts of the readers are important to me, and I have come to realize the ways in which a rewrite can make this the best story it possibly can be for all involved.  I have already started the rewriting process.  This is _not_ a fanfiction that will be marked “hiatus” and then abandoned—I’m too passionate about the subject matter for that.

I know there are many people who love this fic just the way it is.  I have also read and appreciated your comments to the bottom of my heart, and I also know from the number of those subscribed that there are probably many more people pleased with the story that haven’t said anything at all.  I hope you will enjoy the story even more after this rewrite process is over, and I thank you for your support thus far.

As I've said, I’ve already started the rewriting process.  I’ve made fair work of it, but my intention is to write ahead quite a few more chapters before publishing, to ensure that what I am reestablishing actually works.  The bad news is that this means it will be a while before you see anything new—the good news is that once I publish, updates will occur extremely frequently and (hopefully) on a schedule. 

**If you would like to continue reading _Jamais Vu_ once the rewrite is published, subscribe to either this story or my author page.  **

Upon publishing the rewrite (which will be published as a new and separate story), I will post a new chapter here detailing as such.  After the rewrite is up for a week, this old story will be deleted (so your most assured method of being alerted to the rewrite is to subscribe to me as an author, if you don’t check ao3 often).  I will not just replace the chapters in this fic and leech off of the subscriptions and kudos it already has when those who gave them didn’t consent to this new version of this fic.  I don't believe that's fair.

And on a more personal note:

As I’ve said, many people have left criticism that has been thoughtfully worded because they care about this story and/or my growth as an author.  To these people, I say thank you.  For as much as it can sting to realize that I am at fault, accepting criticism is an important part of being a good artist.

To those who have left much less thoughtfully worded criticism, tinted with anger and not very constructive at all, I’d like to say this:

Please realize that fanfiction writers are not paid to produce our content.  I have a busy life with school and a job and family.  I do this out of a love of writing and fandom.  I don’t even necessarily have to publish what I write online, but I do it because I love sharing my work to the community that allows me, as a reader, to consume so many wonderful works in return.  Fanfiction is not entitled to anyone, and I hope anyone who has the urge to leave a nasty comment on someone’s fic keeps that in mind.

If you have followed _Jamais Vu_ this far, thank you.  If you follow it into the future, thank you.  This decision was not an easy one to make, but I think this story will be better because of it, and I hope I have at least been able to give you some enjoyment in the meantime.

 

All the best,

 

AgentNerd

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at theagentnerd.tumblr.com


End file.
